Got Mashed Potatoes

I have been told that I'm not allowed to write about why my car smells like urine after _______ drove it, so I will not write about why I had to sit on a towel on my way home from work with the windows open. Even though I really want to write about these things. I will not.

I would much rather write about some of the late night advertisements I've been seeing. Like the one for ExtenZe. Any product selling its merits on the premise that it is "real science" must be taken seriously. Ah, yes: real science. What really kills me about these ads is when the woman shakes her head at the camera while saying "make": "ExtenZe will make you bigger..." Why does she shake her head at that point of the sentence? To me, all these products have nothing to lose. What guy is going to complain that these products don't work? What if the company requires a measurement? Photographic evidence? This is free money, as far as I see it. Get a silly name; pay a brunette to wag her head in front of a camera; bam -- you're rich.

Or I could write about how I thought about attending Lollapalooza this summer. Pretty much all of the greatest bands of the moment will be there: Pearl Jam, The Black Keys, Modest Mouse, The Cribs, Spoon, The Fratellis, Chin Up Chin Up, Ryan Shaw, Ben Harper, The Satin Peaches, LCD, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Archid, and probably some more I am forgetting. It's at Grant Park over three days in August. I'm familiar with Grant Park. It's a big, open space. That's it. I'm sure there will be a couple tents, but that's all. So I figured that I could conn the wife into going with me, at least for a day, if not the full three. She's not as much of a trooper, as far as the whole rock concert thing, but I think I can convert her yet. And I know it will be hot. But it's all for rock and roll, so who cares? And, yes, I am getting old. Granted. But I'm not THAT old. I can still kick it with the Lolla kids for another year. I know the music. That's all that matters. So I went to the website:

Only $195.00 for a three-day pass.

I will not be kicking it with the Lolla kids at Grant Park this summer. But it's not just the money that bothers me. I know the sound quality is iffy at this place. And seats are only as good as you can walk up to (or stand and wait for). According to the Lolla people, there will be 8 -- count 'em -- 8 stages of music at this thing. I don't know how you squeeze that many stages at the park without the music running together and sounding like crap. Additionally . . . they don't even have the schedule set yet. They expect you to plop down a load of cash, not even knowing when (much less what day) band X is playing. Also, what if two bands I want to see are playing at the same time? That's what I get for my 200 smackeroos? Uh-uh. Playing around on the website, I see they also have "Lolla Lounge" tickets available for a mere $1,700. Or if you're Derek Jeter, they have "Private Cabanas" for anywhere from $32,500-$75,000. I don't know what else to call this but just fucking greedy.

I would also like to write about the phrase, "Pork meat shaped into ribs," but I seem to have run out of steam. I still come back to the car: will it still smell like urine tomorrow? Will the smell fade or gain strength overnight? Oh yeah -- can't write about this.

What I hate most in the world right now is how someone talks or laughs aloud on their cell phone or hands-free, making no attempt to be private.

Because there's always that five- or ten-second lapse in which I think they could be talking to me, so I stand there, looking at them like an idiot.

So now I try and just make it through the day without standing around like a staring idiot, and someone who actually wants to speak to me has to yell at me.

At work, they're having some idiotic promotion in which we're going to "eliminate hunger". There are all these signs up, telling everyone how we need to eliminate hunger. Under the sign on my cube, I wrote: "But I'm hungry right now."

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What I don't understand is how he got the name "Winnie" the Pooh. Everybody calls him "Pooh" or "Pooh Bear". How did he get to be "Winnie the Pooh"? Is a winnie a type of pooh?

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I think the best voice in rock music has to be John Lennon. I'm not a big Lennon fan. I think it was that whole love-in, bed-in thing. Ick. But he had one hell of a voice. What in the world is cooler than his vocal on "Twist and Shout" or "I Am the Walrus"? Anything?

I think the best living voice in rock music has to be Britt Daniels of Spoon. He's got some range, and there's a lot of that Lennon edge in his voice. Just pop in "That's the Way We Get By" or "The Beast and Dragon, Adored". Spot-on.

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I got called "Buddy" at work today. By a guy I don't work with and only see in passing. He's not a real hard worker, but he's not a loaf either. There was a funny, knowing tone to his voice on the phone. I got the whole bit about him not wanting to do any work, and how he was sort of telling me how he wasn't going to do the work I'd assigned him. Truly, I don't really give a damn whether anyone does the work I give them -- as long as it's off my plate. What was striking was how practiced he sounded. See, I know all about this guy. I know he's got this agenda, and that he's working on getting out of here and into something better. But he's still playing the game with everybody. He's still pretending he's like the rest of us, in line, digging away. I wish I could just break his chain with my shovel and tell him to get the hell out of here, we don't need you anyway, and you're cheesy buddy-vibe just creeps everyone out.

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My favorite word lately, is "pile". I'm using "pile" all the time now. You know, as in, "That guy is a frickin pile." A pile of what, you ask? I think the listener can fill that in themselves. Everyone is a pile to me. GMAC, our mortgage company, is a pile because their crappy website was down half the day today. The guy next door is a pile because every time he mows his lawn, his grass blows all over this rose garden we just weeded. The president is a pile because he's a lame duck with no plan or ambition. The candidates for '08 are all piles because they don't have any independent thoughts. The guy at the high school who gave us shit about what door we came in is a pile because he didn't have to take it that far. ******* is a pile because she lied to everyone and still acts like it was normal. The guy at the liquor store is a pile because he gave my wife crap about leaving the dog outside. The woman in the checkout line is a pile because she is slower than molasses and won't make eye contact. You get the idea. Pile.

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I've been slowly reading this collection of Shirley Jackson short stories that I got for Christmas, and I read one yesterday that's so good -- I mean the writing is so strong -- that it has to be one of the best American short stories ever written. It should be read in schools everywhere. She's very simple and direct in her language, and doesn't give a whole lot of description or setup. But she can create a tone like no one else. She's been here all this time. Why haven't people noticed her?

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I think, as a concert piece, the unannounced encore is dead. The band plays for a while. Then they say it's their last song. Everyone else knows otherwise. They all walk off. Two minutes later -- not even enough time to properly enjoy a beer -- they all return. And they're always so fake-surprised, aren't they?

It's just stupid.

Either tell the audience, "We'll be back in ten minutes," or don't do an encore. Unless of course the crowd really does earn it. If they're all still out there, screaming and pounding on the seats when the venue turns on the lights and the roadies are taking apart the set, then fine. But otherwise, it's dead. It died some time in the 80s, I think, and now it's all wink-wink, nudge-nudge. And who wants that at a rock show? For Christ's sake, it's not a network sitcom. It's rock and roll.

It turns out he was right.

I got fucked. And all I can do is sit here and think about it.

What kills me is when I sat down to the computer just now, it came on, and my first impulse was to turn on Lotus Notes -- the first program I turn on at work, a program so outdated and pathetic that only my place of employment would still use it.

So I come home, and the wires in my head don't even recognize it.

We typically go running at the same time every day. Most days, Nolan is OK with the idea, and gets in the stroller without an issue. There are books, snacks, and milk for him. I pull down the garage door, and we head north, up the hill of the alley. At the top, the chocolate Labrador retriever jumps and barks at us, as if it's the first time he's ever seen us get this close to his yard. We turn left out of the alley and cross the street. Crossing the next street, the ground levels, then slopes downward, giving my legs a break. I turn left for the walk, right to avoid the sidewalk bit that sticks up, then left for the next walk, and finally right on Illinois Avenue, just like the game, but without hotels. We pass the house that was for sale last year -- quite cheap too. But it didn't have a garage, and looked like it needed work. The little sign with the bird saying, "Let's do lunch" is still in the tree, from when the old owners lived there. At the end of the street, we turn left into the woods. Passing under the trees, we enter the seminary's back parking lot. We turn downhill and pass the cafeteria workers, sitting at the picnic table, enjoying their own lunch and cigarettes. We pass nuns, who smile and will say "Hi", but only if I say "Hi" first. They always smile at Nolan. We pass through the corridor of trees and stop for the traffic at the head of Bay View Park. We enter the shade, and twist in and out with the trail. We see the same downed trees, climbing vines, park benches and lapping waves every day. We cross the soccer field where the Mexican teams play on the weekends, between cookouts. The trail moves uphill, and we see the man in the middle of the field, surrounded by aluminum, trying to get tan. I see his lonely car to the left, by the road. The trees at the top of the hill stand tall, branching together, and offer their shade. My legs recover from the hill, and I try to get some momentum back behind the jogging stroller. This is where we usually see the old man in the red and tan jacket, ambling along with his cane. He sees us, and his face opens real wide -- so wide it could be a grimace or a sneeze. And he says, "So you made it out today!"His face completes the grin, and I say we wouldn't miss it. He keeps crawling along, and we pass the investment firm on the lake, its flags blowing in the wind. The trail straightens out, bringing us closer to traffic. Up ahead, the new lakeside developments of St. Francis loom in all their fast-food brick glory. We take a sharp left and run directly at the lake. I check the stroller to see if the kid is still awake, and we turn down the alley, south, watching the water slap the rocks and the orioles light from bush to bush, following us and cawing. I pick up speed, running toward the largest hill of the run. I place both hands on the stroller, and my stride shortens. I think of what I need to do when I get home. I think of what I will have to do when I get to work. I think of how I need to get faster. How I need to tweak this daily ceremony to sharpen my legs. I wonder if the kid is asleep yet. I think of what I can write in my book or on my website. I think of ways I can convey a plot or emotion, how I can string words together and together again to bring people to this place of understanding I have reached at the top of the hill over the lake . . . before I have to turn around . . . and run back through it all again.